


Hookline

by harcourt



Series: Fairway [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Altered Mental States, Captivity, Consent Issues, D/s-verse, Drugs, Forced Submission, I wrote this for the kinkmeme, M/M, dark gray SHIELD, discussion of execution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:27:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harcourt/pseuds/harcourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>As it turns out, Hawkeye, previously speculated to be a dom (or neutral) is actually a sub. Hawkeye's "employers" have been forcing him down into subspace to make him commit assassinations, robberies, whatever the person controlling him feels like making him do.</i>
</p><p>For <a href="http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/16019.html?thread=34585747#t34585747">this prompt</a>, where Coulson is tasked with bringing down an elusive Hawkeye but makes a different call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hookline

**Author's Note:**

> I did not tag for rape/non-con because there is no actual depiction or discussion of it in the fic. However, the story does involve issues of consent that might still be problematic, and scenes with serious sexual harassment.
> 
> Also, this SHIELD and Coulson turned out a bit dark. Not evil!dark, but somewhat more jaded and cynically mission-focused than tends to be the case.

"Just put a bullet in his head," Phil says, his voice traveling across the ransacked office. He doesn't need to yell. In the wake of the firefight, everything feels quiet, and his voice too loud in the space. "The sooner we wrap up, the sooner we can go home." 

"Cold," one of the agents comments, and Phil doesn't mean to sound that way, but they've been chasing fucking _codename: Hawkeye_ for _weeks_ and standing in the aftermath, in the middle of drifting papers, all Phil can think is that he's glad that he won't be the one who has to sort through them, to make sure that this is, in fact, the last loose end and they can all go home--or at least back to SHIELD--and put a big red _situation resolved_ stamp on the cardboard filing box full of ludicrous weapons and knick-knacks--undetonated explosive arrowheads, a damn _circus poster_ , a purple sparkly mask, and the remains of god knew how many heists, and the timeline that shows the criminal activity escalating into assassination.

Tracking Hawkeye had led them here, to what looks like it might have been the office of a shipping company, once upon a time, the building brick and bare bones except for its somewhat opulent--though now destroyed--offices. They've taken out the gang--company. Whatever--in what had been a surprisingly one-sided firefight and now that they have Hawkeye cornered it's not that Phil's an ice-hearted bastard. He just has orders and he's tired and execution is the sort of thing he'd prefer to get over with so he can start forgetting about it, tamping it down into the little box where he puts things like _killed in action_ and _missing_ and _it's my job_.

Phil reloads, just to be ready, and holsters his gun, but there's still no sound of any kind of shot from down the hall. He touches his earpiece. Says, "You better be using a silencer, Agent. Because I wouldn't want to walk down there to find you haven't done your job."

There's static in reply. Phil knows by now that it's the comm barely picking up throat-noise. A cough, or nerves. Phil _hates_ having to talk newbies through the grime. "Agent?"

"There's a--" the agent says, "There's some new information I think you should be aware of."

Phil sighs and says, "On my way," and meets Agent Cold's eyes. Phil hasn't worked with her before, and can't remember her first name, but her identity tag says _Gillian, F [s]_. She's from the West Coast office, and he hasn't liked her, except now she rolls her eyes at Agent Newb's case of nerves and Phil decides to revisit his opinion of her. Later. 

"Let's go supervise the apparently complicated logistics of _in the head_ ," Phil says to her, and she checks that there's agents there still covering the doors before shrugging and following. Efficient and on the ball, and fine. Maybe he's been a little wrong about her.

"Anything to get home so I can microwave a Hot Pocket," she says, and falls in behind him, "I'm really looking forward to real food." Phil snorts, but he knows exactly what she means. He can't wait to open a jar of pasta sauce and maybe spread it on a roll or something if he turns out to be out of noodles again.

The hallway they walk down is carpeted in something old and fancy that's even mostly escaped burns and blood stains, but the short stairway at the end is narrow and plain. An old serving way, maybe, blocked off now and terminating halfway to the second floor. The combined space of its landing and what might have been a closet and a bit of adjacent hallway makes for a small, irregularly shaped room. Maybe for an extra child, once, or a guest room, or even storage, once the building had become an office. Now it's bare, with an old cabinet of some kind--it looks like a sideboard, better suited for a dining or sitting room--and worn hardwood floors. Uneven and bearing the damage of furniture moves and lack of maintenance. The only window is high and small. Round, with leaded glass. It gives the room the feel of an attic, and the sense of claustrophobia isn't helped by the couple of agents standing around, conspicuously _not_ shooting anyone. 

"And what's the problem, exactly?" Phil asks, because the Agent inside has his gun out, and Hawkeye looks subdued enough. 

Agent Newb-- _Kelley, J [d]_ \--makes an uneasy gesture, indicating Hawkeye. There's a bit of anger in the jerkiness of the movement and when Phil doesn't respond, he says, "He's a fucking--You said he was a dom. _Maybe_ neutral."

"All data indicated," Phil starts soothingly, before even processing what _Kelley, J_ is saying.

"Oh? You can't shoot a sub?" Agent Gillian demands, not helpfully and sounding affronted. Like his failure to put a bullet in Hawkeye's damn troublesome skull is a personal insult.

"Not when they're down," Kelley says, not taking her bait. Sounding stubborn, and Phil has a twinge of affection for his green as shit young agent. It's probably a sign that he's getting old because he's pretty sure that once he'd have taken care of Hawkeye and written up the failure to comply with orders before anyone could even start to rethink their choices. 

He's not sure he'd have considered _he's a sub_ new information. At least, not new information important enough to slow down for. But then, he's also pretty sure he'd been an idiot when he was young, and maybe the agents he's saddled with having a different reflex just means that they might be less stupid than he'd been.

Maybe.

The sound of breath is heavy in the small room. Phil hadn't been able to hear it from the hall, but as soon as he steps through the door and his damn agents stop talking for a second, it becomes obvious. Hawkeye hadn't been in the fight, but he does sounds like he's recovering from one. The sound changes to a long whine as another agent--Kelley's partner. Phil keeps forgetting his name but he thinks of him as _Agent Dumbshit [d]_ and damn if the man doesn't live up to it--takes him by the hair and pulls his head up. 

Hawkeye is _gone_. Down deep, quiet and on his knees, even with the room filled with dangerous strangers, with enemies, and Phil can see why that might unnerve a man. He's a bit taken aback himself. "You're a sub," he says, stupidly starting conversation with a target. That could make this harder to stuff into that box later, if he lets himself make a _person_ out of Hawkeye.

Agent Dumbshit--Dawson? Danson? Something like that--gets down on his haunches so he can get his face level with Hawkeye's, and uses the grip he's still got on Hawkeye's hair to give him a rough shake. "Man asked you a question," he says, even, with a smooth hint of calm threat that promises consequence and means _I'm in charge here_.

Hawkeye's mouth parts, and he blinks in hazed confusion. And Danson--Phil's pretty sure it's Danson--gives him another shake, and pulls his head back, baring his throat, forcing him to look up at Phil. "I--Yeah. Yes. I'm a sub," Hawkeye answers. Tries to look at Danson, gets a hard jerk on his hair, and stops. Phil notices _Gillian [s]_ is gone, ducked back into the hall, not wanting to be anywhere near Agent Asshole indulging his dom side. 

"You're a fucking ass," Kelley is saying, and Phil's sentiments exactly, but he doesn't want to jump to the defense of Agent Soft And Green either. It wouldn't be doing him any favors to slow him in his toughening up process.

"Yeah, you are," Danson coos, "You got a name, sweetheart?" and Phil goes to close the door, then realizes it'll probably freak his single submissive agent out even more if he closes all the doms in with a sub they're going to kill anyway, and doesn't.

"Clint," Hawkeye says, and blinks again, like he's struggling to regain some control, but sighs when Danson pulls him down to what should be all fours, except that his hands are fastened behind him. Even down this deep he's not graceless, and instead of tipping into a sprawl like Phil had expected, he folds easily, pressing his cheek to Danson's thigh with a little pleading noise.

"Clint, huh?" Danson asks, and his hand moves from Hawkeye's head to wrap around his throat, getting another soft sound out of him. Scared, this time, even if he's still willing and moves his head to make room for the hold, taking the fingers of Danson's other hand carefully between his lips. Being _good_ , and for some jackass he doesn't even know. 

Damn it.

It feels like the box has sprung open. Phil's not sure if he wants to throw up or beat Danson to death with his pistol. "Agent," he calls thickly, and waits until he hears the reluctant "Sir?" from the hall before turning his attention back to the other two. 

"That's enough. Out. Both of you. And," he directs back out into the hall, "keep an eye on Agent Sociopath here. For god sake."

Hawkeye whispers something as Danson pulls away, and keeps whispering it even as they leave and Phil closes the door behind them. Even with the room empty he can only make out that it's a series of pleas. Without the agents there, he can finally get a good look at Hawkeye, and no wonder Kelley hadn't wanted to put a bullet in him. Dom instincts and socialization aside, there's just something _wrong_ about doing violence--even quick, merciful violence--to someone in as pitiful shape as Hawkeye is. 

He's clearly been down for _hours_. He looks not just hazy, but exhausted. His eyes are glazed in a way that would have Phil safewording out if he saw the look on _his_ sub. "Straighten up," he tells Hawkeye, then gives him a quick pat when he complies. "That's good, Hawk--Clint. That's good."

Hawkeye looks up at him, stealing the glance, and god. Phil's never seen a sub so fucking desperate for approval before. "Hey," he says, and puts his hand back on Hawkeye's head, feeling him jolt at the touch, then shiver when Phil brushes through his sweat-damp hair, "It's gonna be alright. Close your eyes, okay?" 

His response to that is a little more reluctant, but Hawkeye does it, and Phil strokes his head a couple of times as a reward. Tugs his gun out of its holster as quietly as he can manage, saying, "Good boy. Shh. You're doing so well," and has the weapon level with Hawkeye's forehead before a thought strikes him and he lowers it again. "Do you want your arms?" he asks, because god. It's just not right. "Clint?" 

A nod. Then a headshake. Confused. Phil lets his breath out in an amused huff, forgetting for just that second what he's about to do. "It's okay," he says, "I'll untie them if you want. If you'll be more comfortable." It would be less like executing a helpless prisoner, at least. Or really, it'll _feel_ a little less like it. There's no way around the fact that that's exactly what he'll be doing. 

The sound that comes out of Hawkeye is small, a low almost-whimper, but he shakes his head _no_. 

"Okay," Phil says, and steps back a little, to get out of spray-range. "Keep your eyes shut for me." He lines his shot back up. Takes a breath and then another. 

Another.

Hawkeye--Clint. He deserves for Phil to call him by his name, at least--fidgets a little, but he keeps his eyes closed. "Good boy," Phil tells him, and steadies himself one more time.

And can't fucking do it. 

He laughs helplessly and says, "Goddammit," calmer than he feels, and retreats into the hall, shutting the door behind him with a bang. 

"Done?" Agent Gillian asks him, and Phil laughs again and shakes his head. Puts his gun away and just sucks air for a bit until he's sure that yes. He's made this decision.

"No. Not by a long shot. Get me--Could you see if the medics have a blanket they can spare? Or two? And some water. And something to clean him up with."

Her lip twitches. Phil scrubs at his face. "You're all rubbing off on me. I could follow orders until I got saddled with you lot."

"It's not our fault you're a soft touch, sir," she says, and nods at Kelley to take her place.

"Don't say a damn word," Phil says to him, when she's gone, "And do something about your partner before he gets you both hauled up on charges."

It takes a few minutes for Phil to pull himself together, but when he goes back into the room Clint's eyes are still closed even though his breathing is unsteady and harsh. Leaving in a noisy rush probably hadn't been the most steadying thing Phil could have done, but now that he's made up his mind, now that he's sure he's doing the right thing, he feels like he has solid ground under his feet again.

"Good," he says, and brushes Clint's face with his fingertips, then tugs them away when Clint tries to catch them in his mouth.

"No. We're not doing that." 

Clint shudders, then tips a little, until his forehead is just resting against Phil's leg. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

He ignores it, bringing his hand to Clint's head again, gently ruffling then smoothing the damp strands. "Someone is coming with something for you drink and then we'll get you cleaned up," Phil says, "But first, I want to bring you up. Okay? Open your eyes."

He feels the flutter that means Clint's obeyed, but he also says, "Can't--Please. Don't--I _can't_."

Phil looks down at that, and even though Clint had refused the offer to have his arms released, it looks uncomfortable. The strap securing them isn't padded or even properly suited to the task, and his wrists look chafed and sore. His shoulders wrenched back in a way that's got to be making him miserable. "Shh. You've got your eyes back. That's step one. I'm going to undo your arms now." 

He has to get down to do it, and has to reach around Clint to let him keep leaning, but he manages. Then has to say, "You can move them, Clint," before Clint's willing to try it. "There you go. Good."

He shivers every time Phil says it. Shudders in reaction if Phil strokes his back or arms or even pets him for too long. Like every dom-attuned sense is razor sharp, and by the time the water and blankets come, Phil's got ugly ideas in his head about what's been going on here, but he keeps them to himself until he gets a few sips of water into Clint, and his sweat-soaked clothing off him. That last probably isn't the best way to pull him out of his headspace, but Phil's pretty sure he's not going to manage that now, and at least someone had thought to throw in a sweatshirt and a pair of the medics' some-ass-bled-all-over-me spare pants so there's something for Clint to change _into_. He gets back on comms while Clint's doing it and says, "Could someone send up a medic? It's not an emergency, but I'd like them pretty quick."

Clint squirms around a little in the dry clothes. It probably feels strange on his skin after his own wet, cold things, and Phil waits until he's settled before saying "Someone gave you something."

"Mm," Clint agrees, and glances at him then down again and adds, "For training." He's off his knees now, sitting cross-legged at Phil's bidding, but he looks uneasy. Like he thinks it's not proper, or like someone will object.

"Training," Phil echoes, without inflection, and Clint twitches. Confused again. Drugs would explain the _can't_ response to Phil's urging him up, and why he'd stayed pliant and eager to please even with the room full of agents. Why he's so amenable now to Phil's interference. It's nothing like the safe haze Phil's known with his own subs. Clint's out of it and desperate and probably scared to death underneath it all and Phil's _heard_ of subs used like this, but he's never _seen_ it.

Clint whimpers and murmurs, "Please," and Phil's not sure what he wants until he realizes how cooperative Clint's being, how hungry he'd been for that first _good_. Hell. They'd drugged and forced a sub down, trained him to be their killer, _used_ him, by the looks of things, and held him in what was blatantly captivity, _clearly_ keeping him fucked up enough that he'd be striving for dom approval, even when he was closer to lucid than this.

And Phil had put a gun to his head, with every intention of pulling the trigger. Had been half a breath away from executing a damn _victim_. 

Phil pets him into silence, wrapping the blankets around him and gesturing him closer. Clint comes on his hands and knees--frustratingly shedding the blankets again--and kneels tidily with his hands on his thighs until Phil pulls him against his chest and reaches for the blankets, going for some semblance of aftercare--or _care_ anyway--even if he can't bring Clint up yet, getting him close and warm and as comfortable as he can on the uneven floor. He'll probably be a mess when he has his right mind back no matter what Phil does.

"They made you shoot for them," Phil says, not really questioning. Thinking more of how long they'd been hunting Hawkeye and had, the whole time, failed entirely to see the strings controlling the puppet. "We didn't even know you were a sub."

Clint snorts a little and there's a hint of sarcasm in it that makes Phil thinks he's finally stabilizing. Or maybe just a smart aleck, back talking sub, and this is his regular personality bleeding through. 

Either option would be an improvement, and Phil decides to try for it again, rubbing Clint's back through the blankets and letting himself laugh at the hint attitude, keeping the sound low and friendly. "Can you try to come up again? Clint? Try talking to me. Tell me your rules." It would at least keep them from tripping all over his boundaries whenever the medic got there. 

"Keep y'mouth shut," Clint answers readily, much more at ease with the direct question, "an don't miss."

"Don't miss, huh?" If _that_ was an enforceable rule, Phil would fill his ranks with goddamn subs.

"I _don't_ miss," Clint informs him, sounding cranky and affronted, definitely coming out of it a little, but maybe heading right into something that looked like standard inebriation. Phil really hopes he won't suddenly realize that he's snugged up to a stranger and decide to make things difficult.

Hopes he won't get steady enough just yet to realize that Phil had been sent here to kill him, because that could be a mess of its own. 

"I'm sure you don't," Phil humors him, and gets another snort, more derisive this time. Something about the challenge to his marksmanship is giving Clint a bit more focus. Is pulling him back, even through the weight of drug-induced submission. It's not quite enough for him to rally around though, and after a few moments, Clint drops back into agreeable silence, hunched a little into the over-size sweatshirt and pressing against Phil's chest, head dipped. 

He barely moves when there's noise in the hall again and the door opens to admit medics and a gurney. Phil shakes his head to stop them--it's too much noise and too much crowding--and after a low exchange the gurney gets left in the hall while one of the medics comes in, kit in hand, to take a knee next to Phil. 

"Procedure is to check his vitals," she says, "but I'm going to avoid touching him too much." Clint looks stretched thin, is what she means, even though he's relaxed. A sub clearly pushed right up to his limits, if not beyond. He's drunk on touch and attention already, and any little thing could be enough to tip it into overwhelming if he's really starting to come back to awareness.

Phil puts a hand over Clint's head, automatically moving to reassure as he tells the medic, "He's drugged down. I think he's trying to come back a bit, but it's not taking yet."

There's a pause, some back and forth with the member of the medical team still out in the hall, followed by a careful but brief once-over, light on touch but heavy on calm praise. There's probably a _d_ on her uniform jacket, but Phil can't tell with the way she's leaning and at an angle to him. Then she gets up and heads across the room to rifle through the sideboard, sliding drawers out and tugging the doors open, finding nothing but standard paraphernalia--ties, cuffs, a worn collar. She sticks her head back out into the hall, "Check bathrooms, the kitchen, that desk downstairs. Check _pockets_ ," and then to Phil, "There's antidotes to a lot of these sub pushes, but if we can't figure out what they gave him, he'll need a blood test first. Or you can just wait it out. His heart rate’s good, breathing's fine. He doesn't seem to be in any distress." It's probably a gentler waking to not jolt him out of what seems to have gone back to pleasant floatiness, and it's not like Phil doesn't know that they're in subdrop territory here. 

The medic hands the water bottle--still standing on the floor by them, and barely touched--back to Phil and says, "Make him keep drinking. And it's probably better if you can get him to walk down to the van. I don't want to strap him to the gurney if we don't need to."

Avoid any head trip possible, she means, and restraint is potentially a big one. Without knowing more about Clint, it's better to get him moving on his own than to tie him in any way, and a bit of exertion might help to start re-anchoring him to his body. 

"I'll get the hall clear," the medic says, "and bring the wagon as close up front as I can. Anyone you want me to leave hanging around for you?"

Phil puts the water bottle in Clint's hands, and he follows the unspoken instruction and takes a few slow sips. "The newbie," Phil says, and nods at Clint, "in case I need help with him on the stairs. I don't know how how long he was kneeling for."

"Got it. I take it you're riding with him?" There's a tease in it, like she thinks Phil's getting attached, or like he doesn't have the willpower to tear himself away from Hawkeye's helpless need. Like some young inexperienced dom, high on his first taste of submission. 

And it's not like that. It's really not. He just can't quite find all the pieces that need to go back into that _doing my job_ box, and has no idea anyway how to fit just how close he'd come to _murdering_ Hawkeye into it. There's no other word for it but that. Murder. They'd misread everything. A combination of lazy thinking and sloppy assumptions. _Of course_ Hawkeye was a dom. Of _course_ they'd know if he was a sub, or if someone was holding his leash. He's good and fast and wily and _obviously_ a dom. Or at least not a sub.

Fuck. 

He'd almost died unfairly and in what may as well be a fucking closet, because someone in intelligence couldn't imagine a sub with his skills. 

He'd almost died because Phil wanted to fulfill his orders so he could get home to a fast dinner and a lumpy mattress he kept meaning to replace, and that's really the hardest part to get his mind around. That he was in his own way as lazy as their intel. Tired and worn and sick of the mission wasn't any excuse, but he'd almost let it become one.

"Okay," he says, to the medic, "I'll see you down there."

Then he calls, "Come on, new guy. You're going to help me explain this one to the Director."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Hookline](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566938) by [harcourt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harcourt/pseuds/harcourt), [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)
  * [(Hook, Line) and Sinker](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1673606) by [raiining](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining)
  * [Surfacing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1756233) by [IamShadow21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21)




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